The Hot Flash Club (27 page)

Faraday approached her, a brandy snifter in each hand. He wore a soft blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his massive forearms. “That,” he told her, handing her a glass, “is colonial coral from Greenland, proof that once it was much warmer there.”

“And this?” Marilyn asked, indicating a petrified black scarf of rock with iridescent purple tints.

“Pahoehoe,” Faraday told her. “From a lava flow in Hawaii.”

Marilyn sipped her brandy. Its amber heat made her whole body glow. “What’s this?” She pointed to a chunk of quartz veined with glittering crystals of transparent pale green.

“Apatite,” Faraday said. He smiled. “Named from the Greek word for ‘to deceive,’ because it’s so easily confused with a number of other minerals.”

“Apatite,” Marilyn mused. “So similar to appetite.”

“Appetite,” Faraday reminded her, “ is from the Latin
appetitus
, meaning an eager desire for something.”

“They sound the same.” Marilyn took another sip of brandy, loving the flicker of flame in her throat. “I wonder if there’s a kind of cosmic message there.”

“In my case, not,” Faraday said softly, moving closer to Marilyn. “I have no intention to deceive you about the fact that I eagerly desire you.”

Faraday set his glass on the bookshelf, took Marilyn’s from her, and put it there, too. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her to him. “It would be very
gneiss
to take you to bed,” he said softly, his breath warm against her cheek.

“I
zinc
I desire you, too,” Marilyn quipped, giggling nervously.

She turned her head and lifted her mouth to his. She’d never kissed a man with a beard before, so her first reaction was surprise at the rough texture of his wiry red-and-white whiskers against her chin and cheeks. The contrast between his soft lips and the spiky whiskers was amazingly sexy, as if her entire face and not just her lips were being caressed.

Keeping one hand on the small of her back, Faraday supported her head with the other as he pressed his mouth more fiercely against hers, forcing her lips open, thrusting in his tongue. Her knees went weak.

“
Shale
I lead you to my bed?” Faraday whispered in her ear.

“Of
quartz
,” Marilyn replied shakily.

Across the river, city lights twinkled, filling the bedroom with a gentle light that concealed as much as it revealed. The room was neat but cluttered with the treasures of a busy life, picture frames on the dresser, books and rocks on shelves. His closet door was open, revealing a tartan wool bathrobe on a hook.

He guided her toward his bed, then, keeping both hands on her hips, he sat down, turning her to face him.

“Undress for me,” he murmured.

“Oh.” She’d never undressed for a man before, not while he watched, and her habitual shyness stalled her ardor. Theodore’s face reared up before her eyes, the pity in them as he begged her not to pretend she’d actually had an affair, not to be so
unseemly
.

“Get lost, Shorty,” a vision of Alice snapped, and Theodore’s face vanished. Marilyn thanked her clever neurons for chasing the older memories away.

“Marilyn,” Faraday whispered. He took her hands and kissed the center of each palm.

Alice and Faye had assured her they’d give their back molars to be as slender as she was. And during dinner, before the lecture on the Burgess Shale, Faraday had asked her to accompany him next weekend when he went to a conference in Montreal. She’d be interested in the lectures, and the city was fascinating. He told her he wanted to take her hiking with him in Scotland over the summer, and in New Mexico next winter. So as she stood in the quiet room, their breath all that stirred the air, Marilyn felt secure enough to be brave.

Also, she felt unbelievably sexy. In this light, with this man, who was, she knew, perhaps five years older, she experienced a kind of pride in her body. Faraday’s obvious desire provoked an unfamiliar inclination: She wanted to be flirtatious. She wanted to be
saucy
. She wished she were wearing that little French maid’s outfit from the yogurt ad, and with that in mind, she raised her hands and began to unbutton her silk blouse. She let it hang open just enough to show hints of her lacy red bra while she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of it, and slowly drew her blouse off one arm and then the other, then dropped it.

“God, Marilyn, you are so beautiful,” Faraday said, his voice thick with lust.

She stood there smiling, thrilled to be living a fantasy. She wore only silk hose fastened with a garter belt, high black heels, and a bra that lifted and flattered her small breasts. She’d worn no panties that night, and that fact alone had made her feel audaciously sensual during their meal.

Faraday pulled her to him, burying his face in her abdomen, the brush of his beard tickling her tender skin. She twisted in his embrace, trying not to giggle.

He moved slightly, bringing his head down to her thighs, and cupping her buttocks, he licked upward along her leg toward her crotch.

Marilyn nearly fell over backward. The moist touch of his tongue, the heat of his breath, the immediate cool tingle of air, sent a geyser of sensations shooting up inside. Then he raised his hands and grasped her breasts, pinching her nipples.

She groaned and leaned against him.
So this,
she thought,
is the famous foreplay. Oh, my!
He unfastened her bra and released her from it, so she wore only the hose, garter belt, and high heels.

“Undress me,” he said.

She felt deliciously lewd as she knelt, nearly naked, to untie his wing-tipped shoes. She slipped them off, then tugged on his silk socks, releasing his bare feet, long and slim, to the air. She felt like a geisha. She felt like a sex object! She felt
fabulous
.

Rising, she bent over him to undo his tie, unbutton his shirt, and pull away his tweed jacket, its rough texture brushing her naked skin, making it tingle. He caressed her body with his eyes as she worked, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers, then suddenly, he groaned and pulled her down on the bed. Impatiently he kicked off his pants.

“Hurry,” he gasped, reaching into his bedside table and bringing out a condom.

Faraday ripped the foil with his teeth and stroked the condom down over his penis, then, naked and hairy and thick and hot, brought his body down on top of hers, and shoved himself into her, and she cried out.

He thrust once, twice, moaned, and ejaculated.

Hey!
Marilyn thought.

He collapsed heavily against her.

Wait!
All her senses screamed.
Don’t stop now!
Every nerve in her body twanged with anticipation. It was as if she were perched on the end of a diving board, arms aimed in an arrow, body bent forward, pushing off with her toes, on the brink of diving into an ocean of delight, but all at once the ocean dried up into a pile of sand.

“You are amazing,” Faraday murmured. He rolled off her, but kept his arm around her, and pulled her back against his front, holding her close.

She could feel his penis shrinking against her bum.

“I’ll be right back.” Faraday stalked off to the bathroom, shutting the door between them.

Maybe he’d want to make love again right away, like Barton had, Marilyn thought frantically.

She heard the toilet flush. Water ran in the sink. Light gleamed as Faraday opened the bathroom door. He slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up over them both, and snuggled close to her.

“Marilyn,” he said, wrapping an arm around her, “I’ve been wanting to make love to you for years.”

Well, maybe that explained it, Marilyn thought. Maybe once he settled down, maybe the next time around.

“No other woman has aroused me like you do.”

But what about
me
? her body pleaded, and she pressed her hips into his groin.

“Will you spend the night?” he asked.

“Oh.” She hadn’t even thought that far ahead. But why shouldn’t she? No one was waiting for her at home.

“All right.” She nudged her hips more forcefully. Faraday responded with a supersonic snore.

Well. Perhaps he’d awake in the night, feeling amorous. Certainly they could make love again in the morning. She wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, not with her body still screaming to be satisfied. But she trusted Faraday not to break her heart or humiliate her, and her body would just have to learn to wait.

40

Tucked away in Faye’s attic, inside a cedar chest, were handkerchiefs, dresser scarves, hand towels, pillowcases, and sheets, embroidered long ago by her grandmother and mother, and passed down to Faye to use “for good.” Faye
had
used them, early in her marriage, then carefully folded them and forgotten about them in the rush of her busy life.

She rediscovered the beautiful handwork, sensual as dried roses, while sorting through the attic in preparation for putting the house on the market. She took the ivory damask napkins, embroidered thickly with ivory, pale blue, and peach, and with imagination, patience, a needle, and thread, concocted a sleeveless, hip-length top. She thought her grandmother would approve of her interpretation of “for good.”

She was wearing it to the second Golden Moments meeting. She couldn’t wait to show the other members of the HFC the ensemble she’d created. Her indigo blue rayon trousers had an elastic waist. Her lightweight, thigh-long, long-sleeved, indigo blue silk cardigan had deep pockets. Better, it had a modest mandarin collar that covered most of the rings looping her neck, but wasn’t so high it would push her chin wattles up into one wobbling glandularesque goiter as most turtlenecks did. Beneath the cardigan, an azure long-sleeved shirt fell silkily over her stomachs, and beneath that was the sleeveless top, twined and knotted with gorgeous embroidery that twinkled out from the other shirts like a subliminal reminder to look beneath the surface for true beauty. She could remove the cardigan in a hot flash, and strip down to the top when she sizzled. Everything was simple, elegant, and washable.

“Mom! We’re here!”

Faye winked at herself in the mirror, then hurried down to the front hall to meet Laura, who immediately thrust baby Megan into Faye’s arms.

“I’ll be back, Mom, with the rest of the stuff.” Laura flew outside.

Faye bounced Megan, who clamped her fat little legs around Faye like a koala cub. As Faye sat down on the sofa, Megan sank against her as if she were made of pillows, sparking a memory in Faye of her own grandmother’s soft, yielding, infinitely comfortable lap.

Laura returned, laden with bags of diapers, toys, clean clothes, jars of food, and containers of milk. Over her red silk dress, she wore an oversize shirt—obviously to protect the beautiful dress from baby spit. Her dark hair swung glossily to her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled. Her skin glowed. A slender, gold chain glimmered around her trim little ankle. And she hadn’t even begun the three-day vacation.

Laura plopped herself down across from Faye. “I’ve written out her schedule. There’s a list of phone numbers for her pediatrician, our hotel, the baby-sitter, and—”

Faye laughed. “Laura, you’ll only be gone for three days. And I did raise a baby myself.”

“You’re right, Mom, I know, I just—” Laura stood up, then sat down and burst into tears. “You’re so good to do this, Mom! And I’m so scared.”

“Have the antidepressants kicked in yet?”

“I’m not sure. They said it would be two or three weeks, and it’s only been one. But I do feel more optimistic—and Megan’s doing fine on the formula, don’t you think? Although today she seemed a little constipated. I hope she’s not getting sick.”

“She’s perfectly healthy,” Faye said decisively.

“Her bowel movements should be slightly runny and the color of—”

“Laura. We’ll be
fine
.”

Laura sniffed. “You’re right.” She shook her shining hair and smiled bravely. “Well, then, I guess I’ll be off. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, darling. And you’d better redo your mascara.”

Laura dashed to the bathroom, returning moments later looking flawless. She held Megan and cuddled her close, murmuring endearments to the baby, who babbled joyfully back. Then Laura handed Megan to Faye, who carried her to the door and stood waving Megan’s fat little hand at Laura as she got into her car and drove away.

“Now,” Faye said to her granddaughter, “we’ll feed you dinner and get you dressed in your cutest clothes. You’ve got
work
to do, little girl!”

All night long, Alice obsessively replayed her date with Gideon. She tried to sleep, she wanted to sleep, she was fucking
desperate
for sleep. Instead, she tossed in her bed, reviewing their conversation, Gideon’s delicious kiss and his abrupt departure, while every grisly emotion known to women galloped through her veins, anger and mortification neck and neck for the lead.

At three in the morning, she grabbed paper and pen and sat down at the kitchen table to write out the conversation, word for word. She brewed a cup of chamomile tea—a gift from Shirley—but let it sit cold and untasted on the table. At four, she gave up. She’d
never
understand what the hell had happened.

She went into the bathroom, turned on all the lights, and studied her reflection.

Bad idea. Who looks great after a night without sleep? She looked like a tired sixty-two-year-old woman, she fucking
was
a tired sixty-two-year-old woman, but she wasn’t a
dog
. She wasn’t
hideous
, she had all her hair, all her teeth, so what had sent Gideon running off like that?

The only explanation was that Gideon Banks was some kind of sadist who got off on leading women right up to the starting gate, then vanishing. She’d heard about men who did that—what was it called?
Seduce and
abandon.
Yeah. But damn, she hadn’t even gotten properly seduced!

She returned to bed, where she drifted into a restless sleep.

She woke at nine-thirty, head groggy, mouth gluey, eyes burning.
Nine-thirty.
When had she ever slept so late? Sleeping too much was a sign of depression, wasn’t it? Well, hell, she had reason to be depressed. No job. No man.

As her oatmeal heated in the microwave, Alice leaned against the windows looking out. It was raining. Of course it was. And it was that dreary, relentless, monotonous rain that seemed eternal. Thank heavens she was holding a second Golden Moments meeting at her condo that night. If she didn’t have that to look forward to, she’d probably just sit on the floor and weep.

Instead, she ate her oatmeal, carrying it with her as she padded barefoot, in her nightgown, around her condo. Everything was neat. Nothing out of place. Ship-shape as a showcase. That was good, right?

She peered in at the second bedroom, which had been her home office until Alan arrived. She and Alan had carried her computer, printer, desk, and necessary office paraphernalia into her bedroom so that the fold-out sofa could be transformed into a bed for Alan. Now Alan had moved into his own place, leaving the bed folded back up into a sofa, his sheets washed, dried, and folded neatly on a chair. There was a big empty space where her desk had been.

Well, here was something she could accomplish. She set to work with enthusiasm, pleased to find she was still strong enough to wrestle the furniture through the doors by herself. When she was finished, she leaned against the doorjamb, panting, sweating, invigorated, pleased with her efforts. Her home workstation was ready for action.

Except she had nothing to do there. She no longer had a job. All this stuff was useless, like her. Useless, and
old
.

She crawled back into bed, pulled the covers to her ears, and fell asleep.

She woke at four that afternoon. The Golden Moments party started at seven-thirty. Tossing back the covers, she jumped from bed and headed for the shower. The hot water cleared her mind and cheered her. She pulled on the brown batik trousers and the brown tunic—she wanted to look professional, for Shirley’s sake. Besides, she had very little left in her closet. She really had to go shopping.

Dressed, she whirled through her apartment, arranging chairs, setting out nuts and napkins, organizing the drinks on the counter between the kitchen and dining room. Alan was coming at seven with the canapés. It would be great to see him. She congratulated herself. With Alan, she’d done something right. He’d come to her when he needed help, then he’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. He planned to stay in the Boston area, and that was something
fine
she could count on: seeing her handsome, intelligent, clever son often.

Her hands were full of teacups when the phone rang. She let the machine pick up.

“Alice? It’s Gideon.”

The sadistic bastard.

“I’d like to talk to you. I was wondering whether you might like to have a drink tonight. Or dinner. Or coffee. Anything. Give me a call.”

Right.
Fool me once, Alice thought, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Alice glared at the machine. She wouldn’t hurry to call him back. Let him suffer a bit. Let him wonder if something was wrong with
him
!

Shirley stared at herself in the mirror, not sure if she was happy or horrified.

“It’s
fabulous
, darling!” Enrico said.

Shirley shot him a cynical look. Of course
Enrico
would think so. He was A) gay and B) her hairdresser.

She studied the floor. Her chair was surrounded by coils and curls of her signature gorgeous red hair. No one had told her to cut it. No one had even suggested it. She’d been studying photographs of successful business-women her age and realized most of them wore their hair pulled back and up, or cut short. Her own hair was too heavy to wear up. It always came loose anyway, filaments springing out around her face, like faulty wiring. So she’d thrown herself on Enrico’s mercy, asking him to give her a style that would make her look intelligent.

“Oh, honey, I can make you look like a
genius
!” Enrico had trilled, and set to work.

Now, here she was with a crisp, layered cut, parted on the side, hanging in shiny shingles to her ears. He’d toned down the red with brown and blond tones and dried it straight, which made it shine. With her new bronze-tone lipstick and blusher, and without her violet eye shadow, she looked so smart she intimidated
herself
.

She didn’t have time to change or mourn. She had to get over to Alice’s for the second Golden Moments meeting. She wore bronze trousers and a matching top beneath one of Marilyn’s blazers. With her new do, she looked pretty damn businesslike.
Too
professional? No time to worry about that, either. She was a woman on a
mission
!

Curled in a lopsided living-room chair, Marilyn browsed through her favorite book about fossils. She knew she was taking comfort from these things in the way one draws comfort from a familiar blanket or song, but she thought she deserved such reassurances, because once she rose from her chair, everything around her would seem new and strange.

Many of the books and papers, once stacked around the house, Theodore had carted away to his temporary location in a rented apartment in Cambridge. Never before had Marilyn understood how all that clutter had consoled her, imparting the illusion that her life was full to overflowing. Now, being in any of the rooms of her house gave Marilyn a dizzying sense of vertigo, as if the heaps and piles had been balusters in a staircase that had vanished, leaving nothing to protect her from falling into a void.

Even the furniture seemed unfamiliar to her, sitting around naked in the emptying rooms, dust outlines emphasizing the new gaps. When she reached for a mug for her morning coffee, her hand closed on space— Theodore had taken most of the mugs away, leaving her with whatever was chipped. Without Theodore at home, the mailbox stayed empty. When Marilyn lifted the mailbox lid, she found only a compartment of air.

Never mind, she told herself. She was starting over. Her calendar was crammed with appointments to see new houses. Her clothes were new, her friends were new, and Faraday, who would be arriving at any moment to pick her up, was new, or she was seeing him in a new light, as a boyfriend and possibly even a suitor. Her newly awakened sexual desires quibbled, but her head and heart reminded her that Faraday was a terrifically nice man with whom she shared many interests. Just because he’d been too quick the first time they made love didn’t mean he would always be.

But should she date him exclusively? It wasn’t that hundreds of men, or even two, were pursuing her, it was more that Faraday was swamping her future with plans for hikes, exhibits, lectures, and trips, and while she knew she should enjoy his attention, she felt flustered by it.

And what about a house? Should she buy one in a nearby suburb with a yard where all her future grandchildren could play? She’d never had a yard before, and she wasn’t certain she wanted one. Did she want to plant flowers? Or live more simply and travel?

She had no idea how to lead her life.

What did her revered scholar Richard Fortey advise? Looking down at the book in her hand, she read:

“But scientific work is interconnected: Like a spider’s web, it is sensitive to movement in any part of the structure, and interweaving strands give it its strength.”

Perhaps, Marilyn mused, that was also true for human relationships. All her life, she’d been too preoccupied with her husband, her son, and her own academic inquiries to find time for female friends, and besides, her sister Sharon usually seemed more than sufficient. But now Marilyn was involved in a different kind of alliance, with unique, unusual women. In her old life, she would have found Faye too artsy, Shirley too frivolous, and Alice would have just plain terrified her. Alice kind of terrified her even now. But these new friends provided her with energy, sympathy, and suggestions to live her life in ways she’d never think of by herself.

She’d ask them what they thought of Faraday—she heard a car pull into the drive. Goodness, he was early! Or was she late? Had she been daydreaming—

The front door opened and closed.

“Marilyn?”

Marilyn stood up. “Theodore?”

Her husband entered the room with the ponderous, cautious steps he always took, as if it were the belly he carried before him that contained his valuable, scientific brain. Sunlight fell through the window onto his shining bald head and sparked off the lenses of his glasses. He was uncharacteristically, casually, clad in gray flannels and a blue polo shirt, and the tufts of hair that usually bristled from his ears had disappeared, no doubt at the lovely Michelle’s request.